Friday, July 22nd
Henrik and I both set alarms for 5am or soon after and were surprised to find the sky still dark outside our tents. I’m not sure if it was the location of our mountain top camp, or the fact we were further north now, but it didn’t begin to lighten until around 6 or so.
In the night a large cargo truck hauling cars had pulled into the car park where the driver slept, in the car park on the other side was another vehicle, but we were the only ones up and about in the morning.
It was quiet and peaceful in the rest area, and really one of the best nights camping i’d had. We could have taken the downhill last night but we both agreed we’d rather look forward to it in the morning, leaving us with another 95 mile day ahead of us to Missoloua.
I undid the crude knot i’d tied in my rope to take my bear bags down from the roof of the shelter we’d camped under, made breakfast, and we were set to go at around 6.45. I had my thermal clothing on, knowing the descent would be cold as the morning air rushed passed us.
We exited the rest area and took the left turn on to the 93 which quickly entered a steep downhill. We descended around 3000ft in a matter of minutes on a road which we had almost entirely to ourselves, the sun was still rising beyond the valley below us creating a soft glow behind the mountains. But I kept my eyes on the road. It was a much steeper road this side, compared with the climb we’d taken to the top the other side.
Henrik raced ahead and we caught up at the bottom, buzzing from the drop in altitude. It would be (mostly) downhill all day. As the road levelled out I took several glances behind at the mountains, perhaps this would be the last of them. It was a bittersweet feeling.
At the bottom of the descent we picked up coffee and pre-packaged pastries in a wooden lodge which doubled as a gas station and a cafe, and choose to sit outside so as not to get too comfortable and lose the early momentum we’d gathered.
Hikers were picking up supplies too, and two were stood nearby at the side of the road trying hard to hitch a ride to the top of the pass and join a trail up there. It seemed they weren’t having much luck but it was still early.
And so we continued cycling as the road followed a narrow river (possible the Bitterroot river) all the way to Missoula. These 80 or so miles passed, for the most part, very easily. We kept a speed of around 16mph, stopping once every 20 miles or so at services to pick up drinks and snacks. We both had the bad habit of stopping at gas stations and drinking and eating junk to propel us forward. After Missoloua I wanted to try and have a healthier 10 days or so up to Vancouver, if it was at all possible in this country.
As we progressed from gas station to gas station and town to town as the miles mounted up the quiet mountain scenery of the morning began to fade. We were still surrounded by mountains, but the alpine chill, the log cabin breakfast places and the pine trees, felt like a different chapter in the trip now.
I was amazed at how well we were doing for time. We went by the towns of Darby, Hamilton, and Victor. A cycle track emerges at the side of the road which we can apparently take all the way to Missoula, a welcome relief from the busy highway we’d found ourselves on in the middle of the day.
Close to Victor we pass a garage sale outside some storage lockers. I spot an old American flag from the roadside and back track to ask how much it is. I negotiate $15 down to $13. It’s a big old flag, with a label which suggests it’s around 50 years old. There’s one hole in the middle which the seller tells me is a bullet hole. I’m not convinced but I like the story. Henrik lends me the money and the seller throws in a 1972 Montana recreational guide – a magazine full of old adverts and photographs. I strap the flag to my pannier and we press onward. I realise half an hour later I left my water bottle at the stall, but it’s too late to turn back now.
We cycle side by side on the cycle track most of the way. Keeping steady pace and conversation. It had been great cycling with Henrik for a few days, but with time against both of us I knew we’d part at Missoula.
Things got a little trickier 20 miles from Missoula as a strong headwind kicked in. We had to cross the highway and I pushed my luck making it across before oncoming traffic as the wind held me back.
We battled through this for 10 miles, and finally it was on our backs as we turned a corner at Lolo. It was downhill for a while and we sped past cars queued in road works.
My energy was fading. 190 miles in two days takes it out of you. I looked at photos from the morning and it felt like days ago. Now it was 3.30 in the afternoon and i’d been awake for over 10 hours.
As we entered Missoula we wrestled with maps of paper and pixels as we finally navigated the last few miles to the Adventure Cycling Association headquarters, a surprisingly large light green building on one of many tree lined leafy sunny streets. We locked our bikes outside and marvelled at the large logo on the wall outside, both of us a little surprised that we’d made it before it closed.
Inside we were greeted with ice cream and cold drinks in the cyclist lounge. Julie, one of the directors of the association and also the person who would be hosting us tonight took each of our photos. I filled in the details on the paper frame: my name, where I was from, where i’d started cycling, and where i’d finish, then it joined the wall of 50 or 100 others who’d passed through this summer either heading West to East or East to West or on some other route, but it seemed Missoula was a crossroads and a milestone for many.
I hadn’t thought much of visiting the headquarters, but seeing my photo on the wall, and seeing the old photos from cyclists who had pioneered these routes in the 70s and 80s, as well as the old bicycles which hung from the walls brought was a humbling experience. Despite my trip being made alone it now felt like it was part of a bigger journey that all of us were making. Hundreds of people are making trips like this this summer, and I knew soon enough my photo would be taken down to make room for someone else, either this year or next, but in the scheme of things I was still one of a small few who decided to cross this country by bicycle.
People who I spoke to always asked me why I was doing this, but inside this building it felt like know one had to ask that question, there was just a shared understanding of the pleasures of travelling America by bike.
We waited for Julie to finish work. I booked a hostel nearby for my stay the following night as we waited inside eating ice cream and looking at the history on the walls. There were lots of Warm Showers hosts in the city but I was too tired to send and chase up a load of messages and given it would be my first rest day in 17 days, I didn’t have the energy to accept someone elses hospitality.
As it turns out the headquarters would have been open for a few hours in the morning tomorrow, so we didn’t need to rush quite as much as we did, but i’m glad we’re here, and the last 50 miles or so wasn’t worth stopping for.
The three of us cycled to Julies house a couple of miles away. The town was surrounded by mountains. The houses were small and colourful and sat in neat rows on tree lined streets.
Later me and Henrik leave the bikes in the garage and walk a few blocks for pizza. We each eat three huge slices and then drink some beers in a dimly lit sports bar called Flippers, reminiscing on the last few days cycling and ideas for where we’d like to cycle in the future. But right now we need to finish what we started.
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